


you’re smashing protons as two worlds collide

by teenagewaste



Series: leave as though fire burns under your feet [1]
Category: The Maze Runner (Movies), The Maze Runner Series - All Media Types, The Maze Runner Series - James Dashner
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Depression, M/M, Post-The Death Cure, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Safe Haven (Maze Runner), gally and newt have a rad sort of friendship in this, there's super slight gaypan if you squint real hard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-07
Updated: 2018-09-07
Packaged: 2019-07-08 06:26:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15924743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teenagewaste/pseuds/teenagewaste
Summary: -paradise[par-uh-dahys, -dahyz]a state of supreme happiness; blissa place of extreme beauty, delight, or happiness.





	you’re smashing protons as two worlds collide

**Author's Note:**

> tw: extremely non-graphic depiction of suicide, violence shown is the fight between newt and thomas that canon in the tdc movie

The Safe Haven. That’s what they’re calling it. Minho referred to it as ‘Paradise’. As they’re sat on the Berg, the children Frypan and Brenda somehow managed to get out of the city’s walls talk excitedly amongst themselves. Jorge is at the wheel, Vince in the seat next to him, assuming his self-proclaimed roll as co-pilot. Brenda and Minho are sat close next to each other across from Newt and a bit to the left, and Frypan is sprawled out on the floor asleep with Gally sitting next to him; just close enough and just far enough at the same time. Everyone’s acting as if the world was the same place that it was yesterday. Sure, Newt could see the layer of sadness that covered Minho’s face, but aside from that, everyone around him seemed to go on as if their worlds’ hadn’t stopped turning the night before.

Everyone except for the one girl, covered in ash and soot, curled up in a ball as if trying to make herself seem smaller—invisible, even. The blank look on her face and the emptiness in her eyes, which typically shined a bright blue, but now reflect only a dull version of what they once were, emulated almost a perfect vision of how Newt felt on the inside. Hell, he wasn’t even too sure how he looked on the outside. He briefly wondered if he looked anything like the way she did, or possibly worse, before deciding that he just didn’t have the energy to care.

Teresa.

He wondered if she felt just as responsible for what happened as he did. He wondered if she, too, was afraid to sleep; the crushing fear of nightmares and regret weighing down on him like his fear of forgetting who Thomas was when the Flare ran rampant through his veins. He closed his eyes tightly, taking a deep breath in and clenching his right palm into a fist. When Newt opened his eyes, he stared down at the veins on his hand, rolled up his sleeve and stared blankly at the veins delicately tracing their way up from his fingertips, to his palm, up his forearm. The way that they were once thick and black with the virus, but they’ve returned to their normal color, blue veins covered in pale skin with a hint of a pink flush that just wouldn’t go away.

Newt closed his eyes again. _Deep breath in through your nose, and then out through your mouth._ He repeated the process several times before he could be sure that his heartbeat wouldn’t cause him to start to break down now. No need to start a panic at this point. Not when Vince was already yelling back to everyone that they made it to the ‘Safe Haven’ and all of the children started screaming their joys, enough to make even Teresa smile from her corner.

Newt didn’t smile. Newt didn’t think he’d ever truly smile again. Not after everything that’d happened, not after everything he’d done.

He closed his eyes and thought back to the night before, the way he kept going in and out of true reality and the world would go black for a few moments before he would hear a voice, Thomas’ voice, and then everything around him would be real; he wasn’t a crank yet, he hadn’t lost himself yet. Although, he very, truly wished that he had just been dead instead, unable to feel the burn through his veins and the way that red film would cover his vision before It would wash over him and he could see entirely through red eyes, and leave him inside of a shell while it lashed out, anger burning fire in it’s path in ways that he never reacted before, while it stole bits and pieces of the brief memories that he had left, and then towards the very end, tried to hurt, to kill. Hurt and killed the one person he would’ve rather died than ever cause any harm to. The one person he cared for most in this world, the one person he loved most.

Thomas. And he did it; it was on his hands. Thomas was dead, Newt was alive, and that just wasn’t how it was supposed to be. Thomas was the hero, he was the one that was supposed to make it out alive at the end in some heroic way; Newt was a tagalong, _dispensable_. One of the many who followed Thomas to the very end, one of the many who would’ve died for Thomas to live. Newt was the one that should have died last night, not Thomas. And definitely, certainly not the way that it happened.

The Berg landed, hatch opening up and children piling their way out. Jorge and Vince chased after them, attempting to form some sort of order out of the chaos that was twenty-eight kids who had just been locked up and tortured. Brenda and Minho each grabbed one half of Frypan; Minho got his upper body and Brenda got his legs. The two of them attempted to drag him out and on to the sand, but they made it about ten feet before Brenda dropped his legs.

“Let’s leave him here, he’ll figure it out when he wakes up,” She sighed out.

“Or,” Newt started, looking up at the pair. Minho’s eyes widened and Brenda’s mouth visibly dropped a bit. Newt hadn’t spoken since they rescued Teresa from WCKD, and hadn’t looked up from his lap in almost as long. They were almost positive that he hadn’t slept during the entire two and a half day trip to the Safe Haven. “You could wake the fellow up, ‘ey?”

“N-Newt!” Minho exclaimed, walking over and clapping Newt on the back. Newt shied away from the touch—all of the touches he’d received in the past twenty-four hours had resulted in mutilation or murder, he wasn’t quite there yet—not that Minho noticed, because the second the hand was there; it was gone. “Buddy, nice to see you join the land of the living!”

He said everything so casually, as if the world hadn’t stopped spinning on its axis last night. Perhaps they were all so used to the death—the bloodshed and the murder and the cruelty—that Thomas’ death hadn’t affected Minho in the way that Newt thought it would. In the way that it’s affecting Newt.

“Yeah, yeah,” Newt grumbled out, standing up and stretching out his muscles, hearing a satisfying crack come from his back. He couldn’t help but let out a content _‘hmm’_ , before remembering that he had no right to feel any sort of joy or comfort in this world anymore. “So are we waking the shank up?”

“Let him sleep,” Gally muttered, coming up behind Minho. “He climbed and operated a crane, kid needs sleep.”

“Then how are we getting him up, Gally? Any suggestions?” Brenda shot back, one hand placed on her left hip, which was cocked out slightly.

“We carry him,” He looked at Minho and Brenda. “And before you tell me you tried that already, it was just the two of you. Now you’ve got me and Mr. Crank over there.” Despite himself, Newt couldn’t help but crack a smile. He was grateful for Gally’s sense of humor, for once.

Minho and Brenda looked uneasy, on the other hand, as though Newt were about to snap and start gnawing on Gally’s arm any second. 

“We’re going to get klunk done around here if you lot keep acting like I’m going to eat you,” Newt spat out. “I got the cure, right? Not only did I get the serum, but I got the _cure._ The same one that Brenda got that’s keeping her free from the flare right now. So if we can settle this whole situation like adults, I’d like to start the conversation off with _I’m not going to eat your bloody fucking limbs off!"_  

The three others stared at Newt in silence; Minho’s face blank as expected, Brenda’s contorting from a look of utter shock, to a look of pity, and then to a look of understanding, Gally’s a look of slight amusement.

“Well then, jokes about the flare are a-okay then?” Brenda wiggled her eyebrows at Newt, hopping over to him and nudging him in the side with her elbow.

“Jokes about the flare are _more_ than okay.” Newt sighed out. “Make jokes about the flare every other bloody sentence, please, I’m begging.” Anything to avoid talking about Thomas. Thomas. Tommy.

“Alright then, _Cranky,_ let’s get Fry up, or into his cabin, and then it’s off to Medical for you. They want to hold you hostage for a couple days before you can be cleared for work assignment.”

Internally, Newt let out a sigh of relief. For so long back in the Glade, he had been second-in-command; responsibilities endless and the stress and anxiety only heightening because of it. After the Glade, it was Thomas, always Thomas, who made the plans, had the ideas, and Newt followed. But now—this was a breath of fresh air. This was their new home, their new chance.

Newt didn’t have to have all of these responsibilities hanging over his head; perhaps they could assign him a job involving agriculture. Perhaps they could assign him any job without a position of power involved. It would be too much. 

It was always too much. It’s still too much.

“Medical? For how long?” Newt pursed his lips and let out an annoyed sigh, although he knew Minho could see right through him when he saw the small smirk on his friends face.

“A week or two,” Brenda hesitated. “They want to make sure that the…t-the blood isn’t reacting badly with yours.” The blood. Tommy’s blood. The blood that he currently had coursing through his veins as means to keep him alive.

Newt let out a noncommittal hum before leaning over Frypan’s legs. “So who’s got his torso?”

 

* * *

 

The weeks went slowly. Newt had been in the Medical tent for exactly two and a half weeks as they made sure that the serum and the cure weren’t reacting wrong with each other, as they made sure Tommy’s blood was really keeping him alive.

There was talk that Teresa wasn’t allowed in the Medical tent for the entirety of his stay there, although some say that she just didn’t go. Either way, the less Newt had to see her, the better.

His stay in Medical went by rather quickly, and soon enough he was moved into a cabin and assigned a job and everything was back to normal.  _Normal._ Newt detested the word. What in this world was _normal?_ He wasn’t normal, the world wasn’t normal, their perfect island wasn’t _normal,_ and nothing could ever even be close to the definition of normal when his Tommy is dead.

Luckily, he was assigned a role on the island he already knew pretty well, something he considered important enough to keep his mind on a single task, but also monotonous enough to not be so difficult that it drained him by the end of the day. He couldn’t remember the last time he had felt so _empty_ , or so lost. He couldn’t remember ever feeling this emotionally distraught (but that was a lie—of course he remembers the last time, of course he remembers it every single day). But all in all, the job was well balanced for him, kept him a bit more sane.

Each day was essentially the same routine—how the bloody idea of going back to a simple routine repulsed him: Tommy had done that to him. He used to think that routine and order were the only things that could keep a unit working in any form, but Thomas was the one who fit none of Newt’s standards for a normal being, and blew off rule and order and went off into the unknown, somehow getting people he barely knew—who had only known order in their home for literally as long as they could remember—, to follow him as well. Nothing from there on was much too orderly, although _some_ of their plans were thought out ahead of time. But the unit kept functioning, and Newt couldn’t stand the idea of going back to a simple, boring, and pointless routine when they could be doing so much _more._  

But, that didn’t matter. Because the Safe Haven, what was supposed to be their ‘Paradise’ (which, really. It was such a subjective paradise. Logically Newt knew what the message that they were trying to portray behind the word, and it really was working, but this ‘Paradise’ was not his paradise. May not be someone else’s paradise. Newt wished he wasn’t so morose.), ran on order and rule and Newt just kind of had to live with that and he had to live with that without Tommy the same way that he had to live with the fact that Tommy was dead and the same way he had to live with the fact that he killed Tommy and that Tommy didn’t get to live _at all._

The routine he had every day was simple, and again, _monotonous._ Wake up, check that the necklace he kept close to him at all times was still around his neck, and then sigh deeply in relief as soon as he knew it was there, although he knew that it still would be there. Shower and clean his teeth in the large shower area designed and coordinated with the structure and pipe systems that Gally and his team worked on quite impressively.

Then he’d head to work, and his job was strictly agricultural. It felt a bit like the Glade, it felt a bit like Tommy was going to pop up next to him and ask a question that he had heard a million times, and Newt wouldn’t get annoyed by it. He understood now. But the slight feeling wasn’t enough to convince him of anything other than he was making sure these people had enough food growing in the ground that they would need to survive for the time being. After he had done his fair share of work, he’d shower again, change into more comfortable garments, wash his dirty clothes—because he felt bad making the girls do it; it may have been their job, but they were already washing the clothes of everyone else on the island, which he would imagine to be a bit much. Newt could spare a bit of time to scrub some dirt off of his shirt.

Newt spent his time between finishing his work and starting dinner in his own cabin—everyone he knew was still doing their own tasks, and he found an interest in reading some books that whoever packed up that ship decided were some sort of an essential for survival. Maybe they were right, because without them, Newt might have gone mad by now. Three months of living in ‘Paradise’ and he still couldn’t forget, he still couldn’t get the image of what happened off of the back of his eyelids.

Many nights he’d attempt to sit with Minho and eat dinner around the fire. He’d laugh the best he could, even if it wasn’t particularly funny, and smile as genuinely as possible. Because maybe if he pretended enough, things would be all right. The fire would get to be too much for him, though. For some reason, no matter how far up on the logs he sat, it seemed as if the fire licked at his skin all the same as if he were sitting right in front of it. All Newt wanted was to feel at home, to integrate just like everyone else had at this point, but the past was holding him back and he couldn’t do anything about it at all. He was stuck in one single moment on replay, his mind showing him no remorse because he didn’t deserve any.

 

* * *

 

Newt wasn’t much of a _joiner_ after his attempts of being social. It had been about seven months on the island, and he still preferred to stay to himself, or with Minho or Frypan, or Gally. Sometimes even Brenda. But being around people wasn’t something he was interested in after everything that had happened. He felt like he had lived through two lifetimes, and the idea of people—talking to them, laughing with them, entertaining them, simply just being _around_ them—exhausted him.

So at night when everyone gathered around together and ate and talked and laughed, Newt typically stayed in his cabin, or sat alone somewhere distant where he wouldn’t have too much of a chance of running into anyone. Tonight, he sat on the sand close to the shore, staring out at the water. Somewhere, possibly thousands of miles away, there was a city in ruins; buildings burnt to the ground, dead bodies scattered everywhere, anarchy running rampant through what was once the last city. Somewhere, in that city, there was a concrete ground that had a stain from a pool of the blood of the boy he loved.

Newt was still staring out at the black sea when he heard footsteps coming up behind him in the sand. He didn’t bother turning around, he didn’t care much for who was coming. He wanted to be left alone.

He heard the voice before the footsteps even reached him.

“What happened that night?” Gally asked him without introduction. Innocent enough question, Newt supposed. He wanted to know how he died, how the fight began, how Thomas ended up dead on the ground and Newt didn’t.

Newt wished he could only remember bits and pieces of the struggle, the fight, the one that took away one of the most important people in his life. He hated the question; hated that he remembered the entire fight in perfect detail. He wished that the virus took away the memories and the feelings but of course, he was still fighting inside; not fully crank, not fully human either. 

“I…” Newt whispered. He was glad that Gally was the only one around, the only one that wasn’t too afraid to ask, because as much as Newt hated the idea of the question, he also needed to tell someone. He needed to talk about it, and he knew that Gally wasn’t exactly the type to tell the entire island that Newt was a murderer. “Are you sure you want to know?" 

Newt avoided all eye contact, opting to continue on with staring out at the darkness in front of them.

“I asked you, didn’t I?” Gally sat down on the sand next to Newt, staring out at the body of water ahead of them as well.

“I can remember it almost perfectly. You would think that the bloody flare would’ve at least taken some of my memories away, but of _course,_ I had to remember this. Of course I had to remember.” Newt’s voice was soft, so soft it was almost impossible to hear it over the waves crashing against the shore, over the sounds of the people surrounding the bonfire—chatting and laughing and enjoying their new perfect lives.

“Just remember, you wanted to know.” And Newt began.

 

* * *

 

_Thomas was dragging him across the city, his arms underneath Newt’s, pulling him across the concrete as best as he could. Newt had been trying to stay conscious, trying to keep the flare from taking over his mind so maybe he could hold on a bit longer, for Tommy’s sake; because although Newt had accepted his own death, Tommy hadn’t, and Newt couldn’t bear to see Thomas lose hope—although the fight was becoming harder and harder._

_And then Thomas couldn’t carry Newt anymore, because Newt was dead weight and Thomas should have left him for dead. And then Teresa was speaking, she was speaking through the city, talking to Thomas, and although Newt was practically unconscious to the normal eye, he could hear it. He could hear her talking to Thomas about his blood being the cure. And Newt knew that Thomas believed that if he went back into the city—back into the burning, exploding, dying city—he would be able to save not only Newt, but Teresa, too._

_Teresa’s voice was cut off as Newt rose up from the ground against his own control, and the struggle began._

_From behind him, Newt could hear Thomas saying his name, almost desperately, but the virus didn’t care, didn’t process it. Thomas and him fought—Newt swinging and the two boys tackling each other, Newt begging Thomas, “Do it,” He said. “Kill me!”_

_Thomas looked at him as if it was the most impossible request on the planet. And the boys started to fight again; Newt ending up on top of Thomas, straddling his hips as he consciously suddenly came through, apologizing to Thomas, who had the most relieved expression on his soft face, tears in his eyes._

_“I’m sorry, To-,” He whispered with wide eyes and heavy breaths. “I’m sorry, Tommy.”_

_“It’s okay,” He breathed out. “It’s okay.”_

_Newt wished he wasn’t about to do what he planned on; wished he wasn’t about to do what he was truly apologizing for. He reached down Thomas’ side, grabbed the gun he kept on his belt, and pressed it to his head; ready to end this, ready to prevent himself from going completely insane, preventing himself from hurting Thomas. But of course, Thomas knocked the gun out of his hand and across the concrete, with a strong yell of, “No!” and the anger of the virus snarled as Thomas shoved Newt off of him once more._

_He faintly heard footsteps approaching behind him, but his mind didn’t process them. He was still in between, still able to fight against the virus, his own mind and sensibility were weakening and clouding—he kept getting lost inside of himself. He was so lost, so confused, fighting every part of his brain—so lost that he let his guard down, his senses down, and he didn’t hear Brenda quickly approaching them._

_The Virus inside of him reached behind Newt and grabbed his knife, turning and swinging it at Thomas, who quickly ducked out of the way. And once again, Newt ended up on top of Thomas, pressing the knife to his chest, the last part of himself screaming, NO DON’T DO THIS STOP NOT TOMMY, he barely registered how one of Thomas’ hands slipped off of his wrist to reach out for something._

_Two things happened simultaneously in that moment. When Thomas’ grip weakened for that slight moment, the sweat from his palm caused the knife to slide down his body, from his chest to the soft part of his abdomen, and pierced through the skin, while Thomas grabbed the serum from Brenda and quickly stuck the small needle into Newt’s neck; the thick black lines running down his entire body making it easy to find a perfect spot to jab the syringe into his pulsating veins. Thomas pressed down and pushed the serum into Newt’s body, and then his arm dropped like lead, falling limp with the rest of his body, his breathing going slightly shallow as he brought both hands up to the knife wound and took a shaky breath out._

_As soon as the serum was coursing through his veins, Newt could feel himself coming back to the surface, the virus spreading away from his cells, even if just for a bit. He could feel the darkness that had been spreading through his veins slowly disappearing, until his thoughts cleared, and he looked down beneath him, the shock and horror setting in._

_“Tommy…Tommy!” He rasped out, desperately trying to cover around the knife wound in his gut to stop the bleeding. He knew it was no use; knew that the blood was coming too quickly and that there was nothing he could do to stop it, but he still tried to keep his hands there, around the knife, with the hope that maybe he could stop the bleeding in time to save Thomas._

_He scrambled off of Thomas’ waist, gathering him up in his arms. “Tommy…I-I’m so-“ He choked out._

_“Newt,” Thomas smiled weakly. “Shut up.” Newt could hear Brenda choke out a small sob, could hear two sets of running feet approaching them before quickly coming to a halt, a small gasp escaping either Minho or Gally; because who else would have been coming for them?_

_“Tommy. Thomas. I’m so sorry, I did-didn’t mean to. I don’t know…what I’ve done.” Newt could feel the tears that had welled up in his eyes start to pour down his face, but Thomas only gave him another weak smile, a quick cough of blood coming out of his lips._

_“’S okay, Newt,” Thomas weakly reached out for his hand, hold on loosely. “I promise ‘s okay. “ The three others were watching the two of them, helpless to do anything else but watch as Thomas fought his death to get his words out. To make sure that Newt heard everything he had to say before he had no chance to say it again. Newt held Thomas in his arms, one hand cradling the back of his head while he held Thomas over his thighs, bend where he’d sat on his knees. “You gotta get me to Teresa, Newt. You’re not gonna last long if someone doesn’t get my blood to her.”_

_“Thomas,” Newt said in the strongest voice he could muster up. “You really believe her? You really think that this isn’t some sort of trap, it isn’t some sort of betrayal, again?"_

_“What does she have to gain?”_

_Newt brought his forehead down to Thomas’, closing his eyes and resting it there. “Please, Tommy. I-I know you love her-“_

_“I don’t love her, Newt,” He coughed again, weakly, trying to turn his face away from Newt’s. But Newt quickly took his hand away from Thomas’ to rest it on his cheek, holding his face firmly in place and keeping their foreheads pressed together, ignoring the way that his hand left blood on Thomas’ face. He opened his eyes to look into Thomas’. “I care about her, but I don’t love her.”_

_Brenda, Minho, and Gally could only watch what could be described as an intimate moment between their friends—their family. It was like watching the city behind them burn to the ground, watching a building fall to shambles; a tragedy that you just couldn’t look away from. A forest fire, all consuming, burning everything in it’s path, but still somehow beautiful. How people find beauty in decay and destruction and tragedy._

_The three couldn’t look away; Brenda standing by teary eyes, Minho could only wear a blank mask as he watched his two best friends on the cement ground, covered in blood, and Gally could only try to fight the nauseous feeling in his chest, try to look anywhere but the pair, but ultimately, his eyes always strayed back to the two in front of him._

_“Don’t you get it by now, you little shit?” Thomas whispered; placing one of his shaky, bloody hands on top of the one Newt had on his cheek._

_“Get what?” Newt practically shouted in Thomas’ face. “I just-I just stabbed you. You’re-you’re going to die, Tommy. It’s my fault. You’re dying for me to live. No, I don’t bloody understand. Please, explain it to me.” His voice faded to what was barely even a whisper._

_Thomas’ breath was coming out in short, shaking gasps, his eyes drooping shut every so often; the need to stay alive just a bit longer stronger than his internal systems failing, his heartbeat slowing down, his body pulling him away. Their foreheads were still pressed together; sharing the air between them each of them inhaling the others exhales._

_“If there was anyone I had to die for, I would’ve chosen you in a heartbeat, Newt. I love you, and if you can live? Well, then dying’s not so bad.” And he let out a breathy laugh accompanied by a small smile, while Newt choked out a broken sob._

_He leaned down a bit more, brushing their lips together softly, innocently, purely. “I love you, Tommy.” He whispered back, his voice barely audible. But Thomas heard him; they were so close that Newt could hear the way Thomas’ heartbeat was slowing down, so of course Thomas heard him._

_“If you love me, you’ll find a way to get my body to Teresa and cure yourself. Live, Newt. That’s all I want.” Thomas’ eyes drooped shut, closing for a few seconds before he slowly opened them again, half lidded, his fight finally starting to weaken—the fight giving out rapidly, taking everything out from him. “Cure yourself, get to the Safe Haven, and look after everyone for me, okay? Just…” Thomas shut his eyes again._

_“Tommy?” Newt pulled his face away as Thomas’ hand dropped from on top of his. “Tommy. Thomas.”_

_With his eyes still shut, he whispered something intelligible, something that sounded more as if he were trying to get the blood out of his lungs than speak._

_And Thomas let out one last shaky breath before his heart slowed down to a complete stop, his body falling limp in Newt’s arms._

_“No, no. No, Tommy. Tommy, c’mon. Open your eyes, please,” Newt whispered, pressing his forehead back against Thomas’. “Please, just… Open your damn eyes!” He shouted, pulling his face away, tears running in quick succession down his cheeks. “You don’t get to die on me! I was supposed to die here, Thomas, you weren’t supposed to bloody die at all!”_

_Newt took a few shaky breaths before peppering kisses down Thomas’ face; covered in blood and tear tracks. He held him close, as if holding Thomas close enough would somehow bring him back._

_“What were you supposed to tell me, love?” Newt whispered with his lips pressed against Thomas’ forehead. “What words did death take from you?” He mumbled, his lips still pressed to skin that was still warm—warm enough that he could pretend that maybe his Tommy was still alive. “Please,” Only one heartbeat in between the two bodies. “Open your eyes.”_

_He stared at Thomas’ closed eyes; his gentle face, the blood and cuts the only things that made the boy look anything but peaceful. The blood and cuts that their fight caused, that Newt caused. The idea made him nauseous._

_Newt looked down at the hand pressed against Thomas’ cheek; the hand that was still pulsating with off-grey veins, although he could feel the virus and the anger and the crank clearing out of his system rather quickly. The layer of red film that blocked his clear vision was entirely gone; he was no longer coughing up the thick black decay of his bloodstream. The black from his veins was slowly turning lighter shades of grey and were returning back to their normal size—no longer pulsating out all over his body. His control over his limbs returned, his control over everything returned, his sanity returned._

_Everything slowly coming back to him thanks to the serum meant that he watched his Tommy die in his arms—at his own cause—with his own sight, his own mind. And that may have been the worst part. Because maybe if he had seen it through the eyes of the virus, he wouldn’t remember the warm body going limp in his arms, he wouldn’t remember the way he stabbed his best friend—the boy that he loved, the boy that he would have followed to the ends of the earth._

_He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Even though he still held Thomas in his arms, he still couldn’t process the fact that he was dead. No one said a word; the only sounds heard were the falling of buildings further into the city, gunshots from all around, screams from somewhere distant. But it didn’t matter. None of it mattered._

_Newt sat there for a minute—an eternity, a lifetime, oh god Thomas is dead—just holding him, tears steadily running down his face as his head hung low. The tears left tracks through the dirt and grime and black caked thickly on his face, causing it to drip on to Thomas, so he let go after that eternity passed. He gently placed Thomas’ head down on the cool cement beneath them and stood up, finally facing the three others that had been surrounding them. The three others that Thomas didn’t get to say goodbye to. Because Newt killed him. He killed him and his body is lying on the pavement in front of him and he’s going to have to live with killing Thomas and Thomas doesn’t get to live at all._

_So, Newt did the one thing he was always instinctually doing—following Thomas. Well, his orders at least—his last dying request (oh bloody fucking hell, his last dying request. Newt felt a bit nauseous at the thought.)_

_He bent down, attempting to ignore how shaky his arms were—how shaky his entire body was—and put his hands underneath Thomas’ shoulders, attempting to lift him up and drag him to where he asked Newt to take him. He held on to Thomas as gently as he possibly could while still trying to support his body weight, and oh how bloody ironic it was that he was holding Thomas as if he were afraid of hurting him._

_He was bringing him to Teresa._

_Although every part of Newt was screaming to just ‘get the fuck out of the city you bloody fucking moron, why would you think of going back?” he had to follow what Thomas wanted; had to follow Thomas, because he would follow him anywhere, even his stupid, last dying wish ideas. So he pulled on Thomas’ arms with everything he had left in him, the way Thomas had dragged him across the last city to save his life no matter how many times Newt begged him to leave him behind, and proceeded to fall under the weight of Thomas’ body. He fell and Thomas fell on top of him, into his embrace, and the tears were back, because he couldn’t even do what Thomas’ asked him for._

_“Newt, what are you doing?” Minho rushed over, voice strained and worried. His eyes were sunken in, looked like the bloke hadn’t slept in weeks. He probably hadn’t. Newt wondered briefly what Wicked had done to him. He wondered which of the trio looked the worst; Minho had been tortured, Newt was still half crank, and Thomas—“Newt!”_

_“I’m taking Thomas to Teresa!” Newt snarled, the tears falling faster and faster as the seconds ticked past._

_“Did you really believe any of that, Newt?” His best friend—his last loyal companion left, his brother—sighed out deeply. “Going back there is going to get you killed. And we both know that’s the last thing he wanted. We both know he—“ Minho cut himself off quickly, catching his mistake, although Newt already knew what he was going to say._

_He was going to tell Newt that Thomas, his Tommy, died to save Newt’s own life._

_“No, Minho, Thomas wanted me to live, and that’s why I have to go! He believes—believed—that she had the right idea when she caught on to something in Thomas’ blood, something that could cure me. I am not letting him down! N-Not again.” Newt raised his shaky hands—veins still running black, but much less protruding and much duller than before—and held them both up to where the knife pierced through Thomas’ abdomen. He softly rested his hands there, covering the fatal wound, soaking his hands in the crimson color of the blood of the body that saved him. He didn’t realize that blood was so black, so black-red, so sticky, so warm, and god he had never wanted to know—wish he had never found out._

_“You’re not strong enough to carry him on your own, buddy,” Minho stood up from where he was crouched down beside Newt. Although Minho wore a blank mask, Newt saw the sheen layer of tears in his eyes and heard the slight edge to his voice, as if he were about to break down any second. Newt was surprised that he hadn’t already—nobody would blame him for it. “You’re gonna need some help.”_

_Newt knew that the serum hadn’t completely made its way through his bloodstream; he knew that he was weak. He also still hade the anger of the flare bubbling under the surface of his skin; the need to lash out and hurt and scream running through his veins, the gray that was once black a reminder of it._

_“I know I’m weak, you bastard. Don’t bloody mock me.” Newt stood up, walking closer to Minho. He briefly was reminded of when he cornered Thomas against the wall, invaded his personal space, and shouted in his face because his underlying jealousy mixed with the virus spreading through him couldn’t help but lash out. He couldn’t help but remember the way that Thomas’ alarmed face crumbled into a look of concerned, and his face went soft and worried, as if he cared only about Newt, and the sick part of his brain at the time fed off of it. He quickly pushed the thought out of his head and turned towards the bloodstained ground. “I’m getting him there if it kills me. Even if she doesn’t have the cure, this serum isn’t going to keep me alive much longer, no, is it, mate?” By the time Newt finished his sentence his voice was sharp and sarcastic; and he wished he could bite his tongue but the serum hadn’t fully gotten all of his cells back to normal and it sure as hell hadn’t gotten rid of the unnecessary anger._

_“Whoa, calm down,” Minho held his hands up as a gesture of surrender. “I was just saying you’re gonna need help. Grab his legs; I’ll get his shoulders. Thomas is one heavy little fuck.” He said it so casually, as if they weren’t about to carry their dead friends’ body through an apocalyptic city burning to the ground, gunfire surrounding them._

_“Said it before, I’ll cover,” Gally said, picking up his gun and walking toward the two boys. Two._

_Brenda stood in shock, unable to recover from the scene that happened in front of her. She stared at Newt with teary eyes, and he couldn’t figure out if the look she was giving him was one of hatred or one of pity or a combination of the two. He didn’t know which of the three was worse._

_Minho and Newt picked Thomas up the best they could, before Brenda finally snapped out of her trance and ran over to put her arms under his back to help support the part of Thomas that was hanging between the two boys holding him. The three of them shared a look—what kind of look, they weren’t sure. But it was the same look; they were all feeling the same thing in a different way._

_The four ran through the decaying city—three supporting a body that seemed to get heavier and heavier with every step, and one that kept a lookout and protected the rest—dodging every obstacle they had to, rushing to get Thomas to the Wicked building with the hopes that it hadn’t already fallen. Once they had finally gotten there, the task of running up the stairs to find Teresa taking a good amount of time._

_And there she was, in a lab—her hair still done, make up still perfect, not even a slight bit disheveled. As if the world wasn’t literally falling to pieces around her. When she heard the four come in and place Thomas’ body on a table with the least amount of equipment on it, her head snapped up, before a look of horror took over her face._

_“W-what happened?” She stood up from her stool. “What happened to him?” She looked around at the other four in the room, no accusatory glances, no hatred or anger in her voice, just pure despair. The idea of it drove Newt mad. Tommy loved_ him _he didn’t want her. He was half tempted to snap at her and tell her that—tell her that Thomas wanted him and he simply cared about her and maybe she wanted Thomas, but Thomas wanted Newt._

_But Newt knew that was just the remnants of the flare still running through his veins, the anger, the irrational jealousy, the need to prove that Thomas didn’t belong to her. He knew it wasn’t like him to get this angry over something as simple as her caring about Thomas’ death, and he knew it wasn’t the time to be angry about it either. So he smothered it down, bit his tongue and kept quiet as best as he could. He reminded himself that Tommy wouldn’t want it; Tommy would want him to just get the cure and get out of this place and to safety._

_Tommy would want him to take Teresa with them._

_“What does it look like?” Gally spat out. “He got fucking stabbed, he’s dead, we’re here because he thought you could cure Newt. Now do your thing and get to making the cure so we can get out of here.”_

_The three others in the room couldn’t so much as stand to look at Teresa, let alone be in the same room as her. Newt watched as she shrunk into herself, quietly mumbling an “Okay,” before hesitantly reaching for Thomas’ arm with shaky fingers and inserting a needle into his vein._

_Within minutes, she had a vial of the cure in her still-shaking hands._

_“It’s done,” She mumbled, not wanting to draw too much attention to herself. “Newt, just sit on this stool. I think the best idea is to do it now before the serum wears off, or any other complications arise.”_

_“Wait,” Minho interrupted, not even so much as glancing in Teresa’s direction. “What if it’s a trick? I think someone else should test it first. I think she should test it first. What if she’s trying to kill you?”_

_“What would I have to gain from killing him?” She said, looking up at him boldly. “I know what we did to you. I know you don’t trust me. But what do I gain? The city is falling apart. We’re all going to die anyway if we don’t get the hell out, why would I try to kill him with a vial of Thomas’ blood when I could just push him into a crowd of gunfire?”_

_The room stayed silent until Newt held out his arm, silently telling her to do it. The entire room looked at him in slight shock, before he whispered, “I’m going to die anyway, with or without it.”_

_He looked up at his friends. “It’s okay. Tommy trusted her with this idea. I may not trust her, but I trust Tommy.”_

_Teresa sterilized the skin on his arm before pressing the needle in as gently as she could and pressing in the entire vial. Newt stared at it as he watched the liquid enter his veins, and he could only think about the fact that it was Thomas’ blood, and that Thomas died so that Newt could live, and it wasn’t fair at all._

_And that’s when they heard it—the explosion. They felt the entire building shake, and then another explosion, higher up, the building starting to tilt._

_“C’mon, we have to go,” Brenda shouted, grabbing Minho’s sleeve and dragging him towards the stairs, Gally following close behind them. Newt stood up, ready to move as fast as he could out of the now burning building before he took a look back at the room. Teresa sat at her stool, head down, staring at the vial of Thomas’ blood in front of her, as if she was contemplating making more vials of the cure (as if that would really benefit anyone at this point), her hair and make up still perfect, and Thomas’ body still laid on the table, covered in cuts and blood that Newt caused._

_“Teresa,” Newt grabbed her forearm as softly as he could. He may not like her, he may not trust her, but the last thing he wanted to do was hurt her. “Come on, we need to get out of here. We’re going to die if we don’t get out.” Her head shot up to look at Newt, a bewildered expression on her face, although she didn’t question him, as if she were afraid he’d change his mind. She simply stood up and took off her lab coat, the nice work clothing not even slightly surprising to him given how proper she looked, especially for the end of the world. “Let’s get out of here, go follow the rest of them, I’ll be close behind. They went up to the roof, there’s a Berg waiting up there for us. I promise that they won’t let you die. No matter the circumstances, the last thing they’ll do is let you die, do you hear me?”_

_Teresa simply nodded her head, before her brow furrowed, “What about you?”_

_“My leg will slow you down, just go!” He shouted at her. “Go and get out!” She stared at him with wide eyes, she had never heard the boy yell before, and he knew that she knew that it was a left over product of the flare. She nodded once more, turning and running towards the stairs as another explosion was heard, crashing through the building and causing the entire floor to shake. Newt turned and looked at Thomas’ body._

_“I won’t let you stay here to burn, Tommy,” He said, walking over to Thomas’ body and dragging it on to the floor, his arms underneath Thomas’ just as Thomas’ had dragged him through the city to save his life when he should have left him for dead. “You should have killed me, you should have walked away and let me go on full Crank,” He yelled at Thomas’ body as he dragged him up the flights of stairs, feeling the building shake underneath his feet. His leg was aching, his arms were aching—his whole bloody body was aching. But he owed this to Tommy. He couldn’t let him stay in a burning building in a foreign city as his final resting place._

_“You should have killed me when I asked, you should have let me kill myself,” He said. “This whole thing would’ve been a whole bloody lot easier if you had just left me for dead.” He knew no one could hear him, but he wanted to pretend—to believe—that maybe Tommy could hear him. Somewhere out there, Thomas was listening, watching._

_And he finally made it up the stairs, the entire outside burning around him as he continued to drag Thomas across the strip of concrete towards the Berg. The two of them were being coated in ash and soot, the wind the Berg was causing making it hard for Newt to see where he was going or what he was doing._

_“Newt!” He could hear Minho shouting. “We can’t get any closer, you’re gonna have to leave him.”_

_“No!” Newt practically snarled back. “I’m not leaving him here. He wouldn’t leave me for dead; he wouldn’t leave me behind. I’m not leaving him.” He could see Minho’s defeated face as he turned around and seconds later, Fry and Gally were hanging over the ledge as well._

_“Try to toss part of him up!” And with every fiber of his being, every ounce of strength that he had left, Newt lifted Thomas’ body up and practically threw him at the three boys who were waiting with open arms. Newt thanked every deity there was to thank that the three of them caught him, because he didn’t know what he would have done if they didn’t. “Okay, now it’s your turn!”_

_Newt’s strength was wearing thin, he could barely stand—his legs felt gelatinous. “I-I don’t know if I can do it,” He said. “I’m not strong enough.”_

_“Don’t you dare give me that shit now, Newt!” Minho barked at him, anger twisting onto his face. “You’re getting the fuck up here whether you like it or not. Think of what Thomas would want.” And Minho did always know how to get Newt motivated, how to press his buttons. Minho knew exactly how to be a brother. So with whatever he had left, Newt held his arms up and jumped with the legs he couldn’t even feel, and he barely even processed the three pairs of hands dragging him up, nor did he realize that the ground he had been standing on just seconds before had succumbed to the fire, and had crumbled to the ground._

* * *

 

“And well,” Newt coughed uncomfortably, still avoiding Gally’s eyes by staring out at the water. “You know what happened after that better than I do, really.”

“You saved her? You told her to come with us? She didn’t just follow us?” Gally said, his voice sort of blank.

“That…” He sighed. “Yes—yeah, I did. I wasn’t going to let her _die_ , Gally. I-I. I don’t _like_ her. I don’t _trust_ her. But I couldn’t let her die.” _Tommy wouldn’t have wanted her to die_. Gally replied with a noncommittal hum. “Maybe you all think she doesn’t belong here, and I do agree, frankly I feel sort of bad because she’s treated like absolute dirt here, but she’s alive. And she has food and shelter and she does her fair share of work and-”

“Newt,” Gally interrupted. “You don’t have to explain yourself to me.” He turned his body towards his friend, although Newt continued to stare at the black sea in front of him. “I know why you did it. Other than the fact that you’re soft, I know that you did it for Thomas.” That got Newt’s attention; he whipped his head to the side to look Gally straight in the face.

“What do you mean?” Newt said sharply. “I didn’t do anything for Tommy, I-I did it because she didn’t deserve to _die,_ Gally.”

“Listen, Newt,” Gally replied, the two friends finally looking at each other. “I know that you two were in love or whatever you want to call it. You two were like that since back in the Glade. All heart eyes. Maybe not everyone knew, maybe you two didn’t even know, but I did. It was obvious. You did it for _him._ I’m sure you did it because you didn’t think she deserved to die, too. But you did it for the Greenie.” The boy just smiled slightly at Newt, as if he hadn’t just told him that he knew Thomas and Newt loved each other but the two boys had no idea.

“I s’pose,” Newt hummed, turning back to face the sea. Gally rolled his eyes, standing up and brushing off the back of his shorts.

“Listen, I’m gon’say this once, and never again, so let’s be clear,” Gally towered over him, and most other people would’ve been frightened or intimidated by his expression, his height, his voice. But Newt knew better than that, he knew that this was the way Gally was when he was being serious about something, not threatening about it. “You need to stop kicking yourself while you’re down. You’re already miserable about this; you already lost the kid. You didn’t kill him; a freak accident while you were infected killed him. He knew that. I know that, and any fucking person you tell would know that because that wasn’t you, Newt.” He closed his eyes for a brief moment, so brief that people who hadn’t known Gally for years wouldn’t have noticed. “I know that more than anyone.” And his eyes were back on Newt.

“Man, when he thought that train almost killed you? The dumb shank really was about to jump in front of it because he thought it would save you.” Gally continued on, not giving Newt a chance to so much as breathe out a word. “Never seen anything like it—y’know, what you two were. This wasn’t your fault. He wouldn’t want this shit; he wouldn’t want you to blame yourself for what happened. You’re killing yourself, man. You won’t even talk to anyone, or leave your cabin; it’s bad. We just want you to be okay, especially since—” He sighed, realizing that his tangent went a bit too far. “Point is—we want you to be okay and come back to being Newt again. Now get up, shank. You haven’t eaten all day and Minho’s about to start screaming. Come eat some stew.”

“Tell Minho I’ll be there in a bit,” Newt whispered, his eyes had wandered up to the sky, mapping out the stars. He had no response to Gally’s words, he didn’t know how to explain what he was feeling during those final moments. Gally may have an understanding, but he didn’t know what it felt like that night. “I just—I need to be alone for a bit. I’m a tad nauseous, as well.”

He rolled his eyes like earlier before grunting out, “Alright, but I’m not dealing with him, you can do that.” Gally turned and walked off, leaving Newt to his own thoughts and his own eyes to continue to stare up at the sky and look at the stars the way he and Tommy did.

He never did go eat that stew; Minho finding him asleep on the sand with his hands gripped tightly around the necklace that Newt always wore and absolutely refused to take off.

 

* * *

 

When Newt woke up the next morning, he was no longer laying in the sand, but instead the bed in his cabin; the necklace he had in a vice-like grip when he fell asleep now around his neck. He didn’t remember standing up and walking to his bed, nor did he remember anything after Gally leaving him to his own thoughts.

Leaving Newt to his own thoughts had never been a good idea, but recently it had become almost detrimental to leave him like that. Not a single person said what everyone was thinking: it was because of what happened with Thomas. No one really knew what had happened; all they really knew was that Newt was infected and Thomas and him fought. The only person on the island who knew that he was the one who killed Thomas was Gally. Brenda had been there, but she hadn’t really seen what happened—it all happened so fast; so fast that Newt sometimes couldn’t even wrap his head around the idea of it. When Minho and Gally had gotten there all they saw was Thomas dead in Newt’s arms. They didn’t know what happened, although he did have a tad of a suspicion that Minho knew and didn’t confront him about it simply because Minho was his brother. 

Newt didn’t understand how they didn’t know what happened—how they didn’t look at the scene in front of them and see what he had done. Maybe they couldn’t hear the words, but the way that the scene was laid out before them made it almost obvious. But Newt preferred it that way. He preferred that no one knew what he had done. He liked the control of being able to tell the people he trusted, rather than have everyone know and think he was the monster that…well, that he was.

He stood up from his bed on shaky legs—it really felt like all of his limbs were quite shaky and unstable recently—and pulled a shirt over his head, following with pulling on a pair of trousers that he was almost positive he had worn the past four days. What exactly did he care for? It wasn’t as if he needed to dress well, it wasn’t as if he _wanted_ to dress well, and it sure as hell wasn’t as if he had the energy to dress well. He didn’t even pull on a pair of shoes; just stepped out of his cabin and right on to the sand as he made his way towards the stone that stood in the middle of their inhabited little society. Newt had specifically avoided this place in particular from the moment Vince had announced what exactly it was and had them carve the names into it. He couldn’t go near it. It reminded him too much of the Glade, of the wall where they had to cross out so many names.

This was almost the same thing, although instead of crossing the names away, the dead were written upon it neatly.

Newt took his time walking over to the stone, and when he finally reached it, he realized for the first time just how tall it actually was. Just how many names there actually were on it. He was frozen, his feet glued to the ground, mesmerized in the worst sort of way. He just stood there, staring at this commemoration to the ones they had to lose in order to get to where they were at that very moment. In front of him, towering over him, so many names carved into it. The names of the people they all had lost. Since Newt hadn’t touched the rock, he could only assume that Minho took his place in carving Alby and Winston’s names in. Minho had mentioned in slight passing that Gally was the one to etch in Chuck’s name, and apparently when he made eye contact with Minho for a split second, his eyes were teary, but his face was completely blank, turning back to his task immediately. Newt assumed that the rest of the names of the Gladers were etched into the stone by Minho and Gally, possibly with the help of Brenda, but he really doubted it.

What he first noticed after he recovered from the initial shock was the empty spot right in the middle of the stone, right at eye level; or at least, right at Newt’s eye level. The second thing he noticed—and bloody hell, how didn’t he notice this at first—was that Thomas’ name was nowhere on the stone. No one had commemorated him; no one had filled any spot to remember Thomas like they were permanently etching names into stone to remember everyone else that had been lost. The thought of Thomas’ name not there along with everyone else’s made him slightly nauseous, because Thomas deserved to be remembered at every second of every day; his name should be carved into this stone ten, twenty, a hundred times. Newt should scratch out every other name on this stupid fucking rock and write Thomas’ name everywhere, because Thomas was who needed remembering, Thomas deserved to be here, on the shore of a beach. Not dead behind him in a makeshift grave that they had—ironically—put next to Newt’s cabin.

He’s still not sure if Vince and Jorge did that on purpose or if it just hadn’t’ve crossed their minds, and although they had offered to have him move in to one of the new cabins they had built, some sick, dark part of him felt more at ease knowing that in a cryptic, macabre way, he was still somehow sleeping next to his Tommy.

So he constantly insisted that it was alright; why waste a perfectly good cabin? Why make someone else sleep with the dead body a few feet away from them? At least Newt felt some sort of at ease, at least Newt knew who was buried there.

He was still fuming when he heard someone walk up behind him, footsteps soft against the still-warm sand. Newt didn’t bother to turn around; he had an inclination as to who it could be anyway. Plus, he didn’t feel as if anyone on this island was any sort of threat to him.

“We left that space like that on purpose,” Minho murmured, his eyes trained on the rock in front of them.

“Right, so you all could bloody forget about him. His name isn’t on this stupid rock because you all decided that Thomas didn’t need remembering, which, quite frankly, is bloody absurd, because Thomas is the reason we’re all here in the first place.” Newt spat out, turning to face his best friend. He could feel his face heating up with anger, and he could only imagine what shade of red it must be. “Thomas wasn’t the only one who helped get us here, but he’s the entire reason that we even got out of that maze in the first place. We followed him.”

Throughout Newt’s entire ramble, Minho’s eyes remained straight ahead at the rock, glancing between every name, but his face was blank. As soon as he thought Newt was finished talking, he turned and rolled his eyes. “Are you done throwing your tantrum so I can tell you why we really left it blank? I want to comfort you, and I will; you’re grieving the person you thought would be around forever. But you need to calm down, listen for a second, man.”

Minho dropped a hand on Newt’s shoulder; slightly massaging the area, and the Runner could feel the way Newt’s body drooped, finally freeing itself from the tension it had been in since Thomas died. “Now, will you let me explain?”

Newt just nodded softly, not answering with his words but with the way his eyes were wide and glossed over with tears and curiosity, and the way his nod looked hesitant but Minho knew better than anyone that he was positive he wanted to know, even if he was horrified of the truth.

“We left it blank so you could put his name there when you’re ready.” Newt’s head turned towards the stone so fast he probably gave himself whiplash. He should have probably clued in, but when it came to feelings and kind gestures, Newt kind of needed to be hit over the head with it. The blank space left big enough for the name “Thomas”, but clearly also enough for “Tommy” to be written as well. The spot being right in the middle of the stone—of course they wanted to remember Thomas. Newt thinking anything other than that was just ridiculous.

And the fact that it was at perfect eye level with Newt.

He didn’t have to reach up on his toes to be able to see the name; he barely had to lift his arms to etch his name in. Of course they could do this; of course they would want this.

“I-I uh…” Newt stuttered out. “I came here to look at all of the names, I thought maybe I could cope a bit better, maybe seeing Tommy’s name would give me some sort of closure. Although that’s a bloody ridiculous idea because I don’t think this is something I could ever truly get any closure from, and I was looking, checking every name, and Tommy’s wasn’t on there. So I checked the whole thing out again—read every single name aloud—and still didn’t see Tommy’s on here. And I wondered why, because surely, someone must’ve wanted him to be remembered. Especially Teresa.” Newt whispered out Teresa’s name as if it were a secret, as if it would burn his tongue if he spoke it too loud. “Surely-Surely she’s tried to take that spot, why hasn’t she done it already? Why hasn’t she gotten it yet?”

Minho scratched the back of his head sheepishly, “We, uh-might just so have someone watching her cabin at night—really just to make sure she doesn’t try any other moves with Wicked—, and during the day there’s so many of us around and she has work to do, just like the rest of us, so it’s hard for her to really get away. 

“I like that decision,” Newt smiled a bit. “Best decision. Have her treated like she’s locked up like a prisoner like she did to so many people.” He continued on bitterly. Newt didn’t think he’d ever get over the animosity he felt towards the girl, after all she’d done to his best friend, he couldn’t forgive her for the betrayal, and a small, probably irrational part of him blamed her for Thomas’ death. 

He felt a sickening, dark sort of hatred for her. 

But yet he felt almost an obligation to love her, care for her, in some manner, for Thomas. As if since Thomas wasn’t here to care for her or be the one person to protect her around here, Newt should at least put a slight bit of effort into giving a shit about her.

The two emotions battling inside him gave him a headache and heartburn; anything he ate or drank burned going down.

“She tried a couple times,” Minho continued on as if Newt hadn’t said a thing. “But I think she got the message after Brenda pulled a knife on her. I don’t think she’s tried at all since.” Newt simply hummed in response, not trusting his words; afraid that he might tell Minho that Brenda should have done it, that she should have killed Teresa. That he might tell him that he maybe kind of almost sort of cares a little bit, but not really, about Teresa.

That Newt was the idiot who saved her life in the first place.

Before Newt could dwell on anymore of his thoughts on the subject, Minho was turning his head slightly to look at him before turning back and staring out at the water. 

“Newt, you’re my best friend, so answer me honestly,” Minho sighed; now turning his entire body to face Newt. “You and Thomas. Were you two…something else? Something more, something-“ 

“No,” Newt cut him off sharply, his face complete stone and his eyes blank. But in a quick second his expression softened. He looked out at the water, almost fondly, with a small smile on his face. “We were something different…important, special. But, no, we were never something more. We could’ve been something more; we should’ve been something more, but-“ Newt let out a bitter laugh. He tilted his head up a bit and smiled up towards the sun. “One of the last things Tommy said before he died was that he loved me, and I didn’t even know before then. And he didn’t know that I loved him before then. He loved me, and I love him, and love wasn’t enough because there just wasn’t enough time.”

They both kept silent for what felt like an eternity before Newt whispered, “There just weren’t the right circumstances.”

“What’s with the necklace?” Minho replied just as softly as Newt had spoken.

“It was for Tommy, a simple letter. It was supposed to be for him when I died,” Newt could hear Minho take in a breath that was slightly sharper than the others. “But well, ” His voice turned sour as his tongue started to burn in his mouth. “We see where that ended up. I’m just not ready to give it up quite yet.” Minho stayed silent.

And the silence stretched on before Minho walked up to Newt and wrapped an arm around his shoulders, before Newt went and gave in for a quick hug. Newt could tell that Minho was trying to hide the fact that he had been crying; he had a pretty good poker face but his eyes were still a bit red and puffy.

“You gonna carve Thomas or Tommy?” Minho turned and gave Newt a small, reassuring smile, and for a few seconds, Newt actually felt like things could be all right.

“If you think I’m carving anything other than Tommy you’ve lost your head, mate,” Newt picked up the tools and started working on making each line perfectly straight, each angle a perfect degree, tuning out all sounds aside from the waves crashing against the shore.

He was completely focused until halfway through the second ‘M’, when out of the top corner of his left eye, he could see Teresa, looking completely lost, as if someone had truly broken her heart, as she watched Newt etch each letter into the large stone. He came to a complete stop and stared at her, and her at him, as if neither of them could look away from the other. Not out of pettiness or amusement, or even hatred. They were staring because Newt couldn’t look away from how Teresa looked at him as if he had completely betrayed her—as if they all did—as if he took her only happiness, as if he stole everything from her.

She shook her head at him and sneered as tears welled up in her blue eyes, that had long since lost their shine and had become dull and faded, staring like she felt that she belonged in Newt’s place. As if she were meant to etch Thomas’, _his Tommy’s,_ name into the stone.

For half a second, Newt had felt sorry for her. There was an instinct in him that sang every time it was reminded that Thomas cared about her, reminding him, the idea ringing in the back of his mind that she must not be the monster they’re all making her out to be. That they all just need time. But one look at the ugly sneer painted across a beautiful face, and Newt was reminded of who she was, what she had done, and whom he had lost.

So he ended the eye contact with a disgusted look, turning back to the wall to try to get back to work.

“Newt, is she bothering you?” Minho asked from the ground next to him where he sat. “I can get Brenda; can’t promise to keep her on a leash.”

“She’s not bothering me, it’s fine. Just…can’t believe she’s really alive, I guess.” Newt shrugged, considering the week and a half he had spent in Medical when they first arrived, and he’s still not sure whether she got reassigned for a brief period or if she decided to take a leave of absence.

After he had been released from Medical, he spent the next week alone in his cabin, screaming into a pillow until his throat was raw and punching the wooden bedframe every night until he was sure that he had no skin left on any of the knuckles on his right hand, and he had definitely broken all of them as well. When Minho walked in to check in on him later in the week, figuring that maybe he had been alone for too long, he had found Newt sleeping on the floor under the small table that sat in the far corner of the room, silently crying over bloody hands and flashes of knives and explosions and black blood through red film and muttering the words _“what words did death take from you?”_

That landed him in Medical for the entirety of next week, where again, he never saw Teresa, although this time he had been completely conscious the whole time.

The second time around Teresa still wasn’t in the Medical tent, and Newt still hadn’t figured out if she was being reassigned because the camp thought it was for the best, or because she purposely decided not to show up.

And if the level and positioning of the lines became much sloppier halfway through the second ‘M’ and lasts until the end of ‘Y’ because Newt’s hands couldn’t stop shaking, no one had to know.

 

* * *

 

The remaining Gladers sat by the campfire later that night, just the four of them, the phantom feeling of the empty fifth spot obvious to all, but spoken of by none. Frypan glanced up at Newt quickly with a sigh before he took a large gulp of his drink, words clearly on his tongue, but an inability to get them out of his mouth. 

“Tell us about him.” Gally said boldly—the question that everyone was thinking, if they were to be honest with themselves—, staring directly at Newt. “You knew him in a way we definitely did not know him. Tell us about him.”

“I-I mean, he was just…Tommy, I guess,” Newt mumbled, his face turning an embarrassing shade of red that he would like to blame on the heat from the fire. “He and I…Tommy and I got on well from the start, y’remember, right when he came out of the box. Think I remember him, from before all of this. Can’t be certain, of course, but it always felt that way. We just talked, a lot of the time. About things that didn’t matter, but in every small way did matter. Because, you know Tommy always had his questions, and I always had the answers, but we were talking about things like the stars and what comes after this all and he asked questions that I didn’t know the answer to so then I had questions. And I hadn’t had questions in a long time. He made me believe in something again.” Newt closed his eyes tightly, feeling the sheen layer of tears make their way down his cheeks. He opened his eyes and let out a shaky breath.

“Look, Newt, if you can’t ta-“

“You guys always saw him when he was sarcastic, confident, bold, at times almost borderline authoritative. But I got to see him when he was weak. I got to see him scared, and sad, and guilty, in ways that you don’t even know he felt. He felt so…much.” Newt closed his eyes again after he had effectively cut off Minho. “When we were out in the scorch, at night, it would just be the two of us, and we’d stay where we were in our separate sleeping bags whispering to each other. Because we were both complete shanks and we didn’t realize that instead of holding hands while we talked and pretending it wasn’t happening, we could’ve actually been lying together in the same sleeping bag as close as we could, trying to calm each other down at night.

“He was a complete idiot, and I know you all know that already but oh god, Minho, you would have been taking the piss out of Tommy for weeks; he was such a dork. I don’t think I had ever seen him laugh and smile the way he did when we were fooling around like that, don’t think I’d ever seen him that calm.” His voice was shaky and breaking every so often, tears softly running in steady streaks down his face. He smiled, trying to remember the moments where Thomas would try and cheer him up whenever he felt his worst and he would do whatever stupid thing necessary to make him smile. Thomas always looked so young in those moments, he looked his age; he looked calm and laughed free. Newt always wondered if he got like that around Thomas, too.

“You lot never got to see him laugh, well, not his real laugh; he had this laugh that…that just made you want to laugh along with him. Not in the way where you wanted to mock him or pick on the shank, but in the way where…how could you not laugh along? It was his air, his aura. Who he was.” Newt sighed, taking a large gulp of his drink and wincing lightly as it burned its way down his throat. His mind quickly flashed back to the night he and Thomas sat by the log away from the fire with the other Gladers and Tommy coughed up the drink while Newt was drinking away with a straight face. Anything to numb the pain, it was at that time. The night Thomas got his name back.

He quickly snapped back into reality when he realized he hadn’t spoken in quite a bit. “He was beautiful, in whatever way you’d like to take the word and mold it; in whatever way you’d like to interpret the word beautiful, that was Tommy. He was beautiful. Never thought I’d go weak for a Greenie; never thought I’d go weak for anyone, actually.” Newt let out a bitter chuckle and took sips out of his drink as if he were a dehydrated man. He finished the cup, eyes glazed over and bloodshot from the drink, but also from unshed tears, as well.

“My Tommy was exactly the same as your Thomas, I just saw a bit extra of his soul, I’spose. I just saw where only…only one person would see.” Newt whispered out, staring directly at the fire.

He knew the things about Thomas that no one else knew about, the things that only the person you love would know about, and he still never took the hint? They both missed this; they both missed each other. 

“I’m sorry, Newt,” Minho said after a stretch of silence. Frypan’s head was hung low, body shaking, and Newt understood. He understood the feeling of wanting to hide from the truth of this. “I’m sorry that you had to lose him, that it had to be you there. I’m sorry that it wasn’t someone else there.”

“Why are you apologizing to me? Why would you want someone else there? We all lost him, you, Fry, Brenda, Gally, even Tere-“ Newt cut himself off short with a blank look on his face. He breathed out slowly and turned to look at Minho, blinking at him a few times in confusion.

They all lost Thomas; he didn’t _belong_ to Newt—no matter how badly Newt would’ve loved to have Thomas as his, no matter how many times he refers to him as "my Tommy" in his head—and he especially did not belong to Newt when it came to grieving him. And in all honesty, he wouldn’t change being the last person Thomas saw. He would change the situation, of course, but if Thomas had to die in anyone’s arms, Newt would prefer himself over anyone else. 

Newt shook his head one more time in confusion, dried tears stuck to his face as his brow furrowed and he cocked his head to one side, completely oblivious. “Why me?”

“Because he was your soulmate and you lost him.”

 

* * *

 

Newt was working in the fields when he realized how beautiful the sky looked that day. The sky was still just it’s normal, simple shade of blue, but he could already tell by the way the clouds twisted together and by the way that the warm breeze hugged him, that it was going to be a perfect day to watch the sunset. He knew exactly where to go to watch the colors fade into the night as the stars began to rise above his head. It was one of Tommy’s favorite things, and the two boys used to sit and watch it together when things got a tad too stressful. 

So once Newt had finished his work, he put his tools away, practically running over to his cabin to clean up a bit and change out of his dirty clothing. He had to move fast if he wanted to make it to the perfect spot on the island to watch the sunset; he had to move fast if he wanted to make it in time. 

Once Newt had changed and made himself as clean as he could get within the amount of time he gave himself, he grabbed a satchel off of the side table by his bed and practically ran out of his cabin, ignoring the curious looks of all of the other residents of the Safe Haven. The only interruption he had was when he collided into another body at full force, almost knocking himself and the other person over.

“I’m so sor-” He began before he looked up and saw that Teresa was standing directly in front of him. His face went blank and his voice went flat. “Sorry.”

She dipped her head down slightly and sighed. “That’s alright, I ran into you.”

And Newt truly felt _sorrow_ for her; he truly pitied her. He never wanted to see people in pain, but the anger he felt towards her was something that wasn’t caused by a virus, it was caused by something different, something deeper than that. He didn’t want to hate her, but he couldn’t shake the feeling out of his bones and out of his veins because she _betrayed them._ They took her in and loved her and cared about her and protected her, even knowing that her and Tommy were the reason that they had all been in the Maze in the first place; they still forgave her. They didn’t care. 

They hated that she turned her back on the people that protected and cared about her, as well as forgiving her for practically ruining their lives. They hated the betrayal. That, and clearly what she let happen to Minho, as well.

“Are you going back down?” Newt asked in the most polite manner he could, although even to his own ears it sounded like a snarl. “Dinner’s almost ready.”

“What about you? Where are you going, are you eating?” She asked, a hand cocked on her hip as she stared at Newt. She still hadn’t found her voice, still knew that she wasn’t quite welcome and that the only reason that she was even alive and here was because Newt knew that Thomas cared whether she lived or died. She still talked quite gently, almost as if she was trying to be sure that nothing she said could be taken as confrontational.

“Does it really matter?” Newt said sharply. He could hear the faint yelling from below them, Vince doing his nightly speech to commemorate those who were lost during their journey here.

“Newt, where are you going?” Teresa said again, louder this time, sounding a bit more like her old self. Newt almost smiled at the idea of Teresa getting comfortable again, comfortable enough to go back to standing up for herself and putting herself out there.

“I’m going up to the cliff to see the sunset, Tommy loved the way the sky looked at sundown, it calmed him down sometimes, on days when the stress got to be too much,” Newt stared at her blankly, shifting his weight a bit to put more pressure on his good leg. “Where are _you_ going, Teresa?” Newt asked again. He had no reason to give her such a blatant attitude; he really had no reason to be upset with her at all. She was just in his way. He had something to do, that he wanted to do at a specific time, and she was in his way.

“I was going for a run,” She replied simply.

“A bloody _run?_ Why?”

“Helps me clear _my_ head. Tom had his sunsets, I run. I’m sure you do something too, other than miss Thomas.” Teresa’s voice had gone reserved again, and she seemed to shrink into herself as if Newt was going to lash out at her.

“Yes, I miss Tommy, are there restrictions on missing my best mate?”

“You wouldn’t have come to save my life if he was just your best friend, Newt. You know that, I know that, and I’m sure everyone else knows that too. And that’s okay. You can love him, even though he’s gone. You can admit it, but you have to talk to someone first,” She hesitantly rested a hand on Newt’s shoulder, stepping a slight bit closer. “God knows Tom loved you too.”

The only sound that could be heard between the pair was the chatter from around the bonfire below as Newt stared at her with completely blank mask, although there was a sort of hatred there too. He could feel it; and if he could feel it, he was sure Teresa could feel it. 

Apparently, Teresa thought the burning glare and deafening silence directed towards her had gone on for too long; “He loved you so much, Newt. Everyone could see it, just in the way he looked at you. God, he loved you in so many ways; so many ways that I had wished he had loved me. He would have gone into that city whether Wicked had taken Minho or not if he knew he could get the cure for you.”

She closed her eyes and smiled slightly, before opening them with a flutter of her eyelashes. “He and I used to talk; he trusted me like that,” Her voice suddenly developed a tone of deep acridity to it. “He trusted me. Before…” She looked up at him. “Before.”

“And half of the time, when we would talk, he would talk about _you_. No matter what we were trying to talk about, it always came back to you. I knew Tom loved you from the second I saw him stare at you while you ate a bowl of stew, watching you like you hung the stars, like every movement you made was creating an entirely new universe out there somewhere.”

She took a deep breath, stepping a bit closer and squeezing her hand on his shoulder. “He died trying to cure you, to save you, and he would have stopped at nothing to do it even if he had survived. His death brought you life, and I think that’s beautiful; I believe that he’s a part of you. I may be a woman of science, but you love him, and I’m sure he’s out there somewhere watching this very moment, and he loves you too.”

And his anger and his hatred became too much for him and he could feel his own resolve crumbling, his posture going slack, shoulders slumping and looking utterly exhausted.

Newt closed his eyes, the tears in them too much, and he couldn’t cry in front of Teresa, he couldn’t cry at all. He wasn’t meant to be standing on a hill with her, listening to her tell him something he already knew. He already _knew_ that Thomas loved him, because it plays on repeat in his head every night; what keeps him awake, what plagues his dreams at night, while simultaneously being the one thought that makes his heart soar to heaven.

Soars to heaven to look for Thomas, but finds nothing but the same two sentences on loop over and over.

 _“If there was anyone I had to die for, I would’ve chosen you in a heartbeat, Newt. I love you, and if you can live? Well, then dying’s not so bad.”_

She didn’t _need_ to tell him that Thomas loved him, because he already knew firsthand.

And that’s where he snapped.

“It doesn’t bloody matter whether he loved me or not, it doesn’t bloody matter whether I love him or not, nothing bloody matters because he’s dead, and I killed him, and you’re the reason why any of this happened in the first place!” Newt shook the hand that she had rested on his shoulder off violently and stepped back, a sharp pain shooting up his bad leg when he settled on it the wrong way. “You! You caused this and I know it and you know it! Maybe I shoved the knife in his stomach but we wouldn’t even have been in that city if we hadn’t’ve had to get Minho back from you! And-and now everything…now everything is gone. He’s gone, and he’s never coming back. He’s dead, but, oh, at least we were able to bring his body to ‘Paradise’. You can all keep living your lives without him, sitting around campfires and going on runs and smiling and laughing, but I just can’t. I can’t do that. I can’t even pretend to do that. Go enjoy your bloody dinner.”

He stormed up the hill, ignoring the pain in his leg, reminding himself that the pain didn’t really matter; it’d be gone soon anyway.

Teresa’s calls were drowned out by the blood pumping in his ears as he started to run up the suddenly winding hill, the tears running steadily down his face.

 _Thomas didn’t give his life for anyone; he was murdered. By me._ Newt kept repeating in his head.

Newt had brought a knife through his stomach and then held him and watched as he bled out, helpless to do anything but talk him through dying. All Thomas did was fight off a Flare-infected Newt and it cost him his life. He couldn’t have just killed Newt, couldn’t have just left him behind; couldn’t have just listened.

_“I love you, and if you can live? Well, then dying’s not so bad.”_

When Newt finally reached the top of the hill, he could see practically the whole island. It wasn’t a particularly tall hill, but the way it was angled kept the view clear of any trees, so the skyline was beautiful. Newt sat down on the grass, looking out at the water, and the way the sun slowly set behind it; how the sky turned beautiful shades of purples and pinks and oranges. He watched as the light and the colors twisted with the clouds, the perfect puffy white ones that you would only get on perfect days. The breeze was a perfect temperature, the smell of the ocean washed over the entire island minutely and left a calm atmosphere, one perfect for what the children below him had experienced already.

He laid down on his back as the colors of the sky began to fade into the indigo color of dusk, and stared up until he could see the stars and the moon perfectly, remembering the time that he showed Thomas constellations, and Thomas had been shocked, because neither of them could quite figure out how his brain had managed to remember what constellations were, let alone remember which ones were which.

He smiled up at the sky softly, the first real smile since Thomas died, and he reached down into the small satchel he had brought with him.

“Tommy,” He whispered, so soft that he could barely hear it himself. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry for what I’ve done to you, but I’m going to make it right, I promise you. I swear to you, I’m making it right. I love you, Tommy.”

Newt closed his eyes, brought the gun up to his temple, and the sound of the gunshot could be heard throughout the entire Safe Haven.

                        

**Author's Note:**

> OKay so  
> i started this fic in february, i wrote like four pages in word, but they were all bits and pieces of what would be random parts of the fic. and i was like “yo! this is gonna be lit!” and i was so excited and then i kept getting inspiration for other fics but i never wrote them and then life happened and then every time i’d work on this, i wouldn’t actually put the pieces together, i would just add MORE PIECES, and that got me to nineteen pages. so i stopped working on it until two days ago and that’s when the next eleven pages came from…so here you go. i really hope you enjoy it bc i really enjoyed writing it (kind of it made me so sad but i love writing newt so much).
> 
> i have read and reread this so many times, and have had so many of my friends read it through different stages of it’s composition, but i still probably missed a ton of grammatical mistakes so. i’m sorry about that friends. the entire flashback scene, i had to watch That scene repeatedly, in like. practical slow motion?? so i could get the details accurate so let me tell you. i don’t know if my roommates heard me but holy fuck did i cry a lot. and three, i’m literally still reading the books fight me on it so if there’s shit in here that’s inaccurate to things that actually happened in the books that i don’t know about yet don’t even mentioned it, i’m not stupid i just haven’t gotten there yet college kicks ass.
> 
> (also, i’m american, and i literally watched three hours of whatever kind of british tv i could find to sort of get the wording and articulation right help i butchered it i’m so sorry. ALSO LET ME KNOW IF I WROTE NEWT IN CHARACTER OR?? i enjoy constructive criticism)
> 
> if u want, follow me on twitter. i'm lame but i'm usually that funny kind of lame  
> @unholynewt


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